


Achromatic

by hollyhawke



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/pseuds/hollyhawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world doesn’t particularly need saving. The new SHIELD and its few, trusty associates are well  on their way to whittling down the list of known HYDRA bases worldwide. No power hungry scientists have made unfortunate discoveries recently, to anyone’s knowledge. Nor have there been any alien encounters in three hundred and nineteen days.</p><p>For the first time in months, everything is more or less okay. Except it isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Achromatic

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the 2014 Marvel Bang.
> 
> I'd like to thank my wonderful beta reader [Abigail](www.foreverboybucky.tumblr.com), as well as [Kristin](www.sgflutegirl.livejournal.com), who created beautiful artwork, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2619686).
> 
> The only major warning for this fic is depression. If you'd like more information about how this fic deals with depression, please don't hesitate to message me!

Steve wakes up in the morning and doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

The world doesn’t particularly need saving. The new SHIELD and its few, trusty associates are well on their way to whittling down the list of known HYDRA bases worldwide. No power hungry scientists have made unfortunate discoveries recently, to anyone’s knowledge. Nor have there been any alien encounters in three hundred and nineteen days.

Bucky is still sleeping, safe and comfortable, in the next room. Sam’s the next floor up, and Natasha beneath them. Avengers Tower is full of superheroes these days; it’s probably the safest building in New York. 

For the first time in months, everything is more or less okay.

And Steve doesn’t know what to do.

The first steps at least, are easy. Get out of bed, for a start. He heads straight to the kitchen to start the coffee like he always does, then opens the fridge to see what’s in it. Eggs for breakfast today, he thinks. (Just like yesterday). They’re running low on OJ. Maybe he’ll make some toast this morning too, just to mix things up a bit.

By the time Bucky emerges from his room, tousled and yawning and clutching a blanket around his shoulders, breakfast is on the stove and Steve is wrapped around a mug of coffee, even though it doesn’t do anything for him.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” Steve replies. “Coffee’s ready, and breakfast will be too in a minute.”

They eat in more or less silence; Bucky has never been much of a morning person, but he does the dishes since Steve did the cooking and Steve wanders off to the bathroom for a shower.

Shower. Brush teeth. Get dressed. 

Okay, so the first part of the day is easy. But what now?

Bucky has been filling his days with therapy appointments, training with Natasha, and catching up on world history and culture - mainly via the Internet, which has provided a few good laughs for all of them. Sam’s back to work at the VA, and Natasha, bless her, is still on PR duty, which she got stuck with thanks to Steve being in the hospital and never quite wriggled out of. She’s been spending lots of time at Stark Tower - newly christened as Avengers Tower - these days, in cohorts with Pepper and drinking all of Tony’s expensive booze, as she reports. They live in the same building, and Steve misses her.

That leaves everyone busy but him. He feels like he should be more helpful than he is; he’s made a few public appearances, issued an official statement with some help from Pepper, officially introduced Bucky to the public as a long lost war hero. That had been an ordeal for everyone and now it’s over and SHIELD is putting itself back together with Coulson at the helm, and now what, he wants to know. Now what.

Sam’s gone. Bucky’s gone. Natasha’s gone. Steve’s got the place to himself for today, and he’s tired of moping around doing nothing. 

He grabs his sleek black Stark Industries credit card and his coat.

Damn it, he’s going to do something today.

 

He’s done some amount of exploring the area near Sam’s place, out of sheer necessity; they need food, and toiletries, and other household goods. He knows where the grocery store is. He knows where the best Mexican restaurant is, and the best pizza place.

He does not know where the art store is.

He decides it’s about time he found it.

Steve has never once, since Tony gave it to him, used his Stark Industries credit card. He always figured it was more of a gesture than anything else, but when he went to the grocery store with Natasha (who glared viciously at anyone who stared) and he’d paid with cash, she raised her eyebrows.

“I know Tony gave you a credit card,” she’d said. “Have you ever used it? I know Tony’s...difficult, but he wouldn’t have given you that card if he didn’t want you to use it.”

Maybe it’s time he used it.

Steve finds a yarn shop before he finds an art shop, and he doesn’t know the first thing about knitting, but he walks into the store anyways and spends fifteen minutes appreciating the beautiful colors and textures of the yarn before he approaches the saleswoman, a cute college-aged girl with her hair in a ponytail and the scarf she’s working on draped over her elbow.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I’d like to learn to knit, but…I don’t really know where to start.”

“Oh,” she says, “It’s easy, you’ll love it! I always find it really calming. Here, there are some beginner’s books on the back wall….”

She walks him through how to read yarn labels and helps him choose a book and a couple sets of needles to start him off, and then sets him loose to choose yarn equipped with his newfound knowledge. He picks a nice thick blue yarn and a pattern for a simple beginner’s scarf, then a couple more skeins. He figures he might give them to Sam and Bucky and Nat, maybe for Christmas or their birthdays.

Steve spends eighty bucks on yarn and rings it up on his Stark Industries credit card. It feels wildly extravagant, but in a good way.

He still hasn’t made it to the art store, so he asks the saleswoman for directions.

“It’s right around the corner, to your left, and down a block,” she informs him cheerfully, pointing. “Have a great day!”

“Thanks, you too,” he agrees, thinking absently that he is having a good day.

The art store is overwhelming. They have a whole wall of just paper. All he has at home - feels weird to think of the tower that way, but it kind of is - is a shoddy little watercolor set and some pencils he’s never really used. He hasn’t drawn anything in - he can’t remember how long.

He loads up a basket with everything that strikes his fancy. Watercolor paper, a new set of pencils, colored pencils, copic markers. He grabs a set of pastels. Some new paint brushes. He has no idea how to use most of this stuff, and he’d really like to learn.

His art store purchase is considerably more expensive than his yarn store purchase, and he hasn’t been this happy in weeks.

 

When he gets home, he realizes he’s been gone for quite a while; both Bucky and Sam are home, Bucky leaned over the stove stirring something that smells suspiciously like mac and cheese, and Sam at the table reading the paper.

“Hey,” Bucky says absentmindedly when he comes in. Sam echoes him, then goes back to reading the paper. “Where’ve you been?”

Steve shrugs. “Walked down to the art store,” he says. “Never been, figured it was about time I went.”

“Ooh.” Bucky abandons his pot and comes over to peer interestedly into Steve’s shopping bags. “You went to the yarn store too? Did you learn how to knit when I wasn’t looking?”

“No,” admits Steve sheepishly at the same time as Sam exclaims, “I can knit!”

Bucky and Steve look at him, and he shrugs. “My mom taught me,” he says. “It’s pretty easy. I can teach you, at least the basics.”

“All right,” says Steve. “It was on the way to the art store, so I figured I’d stop.”

“Which art store did you go to?” asks Sam.

“The one that’s about ten blocks down and around that corner, the one with the park,” says Steve. “I can’t remember the name of it.”

Sam hums. “I know that one,” he says. “Been in there once or twice, looking for craft supplies. Owner’s nice.”

“She is,” Steve agrees.

“What’d you get at the art store?” asks Bucky, sticking his hand into the shopping bag.

“Paints, some pencils, markers,” says Steve. “Bunch of stuff I haven’t tried yet.”

“Did you get an easel?” Sam asks. 

“Dammit,” Steve mutters, and Sam laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “There’s an old one at the VA that no one’s used in ages. I’ll ask them if they want someone to take it off their hands. We gotta find you some space for an art studio.”

Steve spends a few weeks with the hand-me-down easel (which frankly, he likes too much to bother going out and buying a fancy new one) in the cramped corner of Sam’s living room, which he likes because it gets nice morning sunlight and has a view of the city skyline.

When Tony finds out that he insists on drawing in Sam’s living room - not even on his own floor, for chrissakes - he retaliates by designing a whole room adjacent to Steve’s existing suite just to be an art studio, and outfitting it with an array of cabinets, a sink, a fridge, and a radio. There’s a nice big table in the middle of the room for him to work at, and it’s on the south side of the tower with a beautiful view.

Steve’s never thought of Tony as the thoughtful type before, but he finds himself trying not to cry as he stands in the middle of the room with his modest box of art supplies, wondering how he’s ever going to use it to the potential that Tony designed it.

“So, when I asked you what makes you happy,” Sam asks, standing at his elbow and admiring the view with him. “Is this it?”

Steve shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits. “I always liked art, back - well, before. Took art classes whenever I could. ‘Course, I never had anything this fancy,” he gestures at the room around them, “but, it was nice, I guess.”

Sam just nods.

 

One morningSteve wakes up and the sun is streaming through his window, and he can hear birds chirping even though he’d thoroughly expect Tony to have soundproofed glass, and it’s a perfect morning - except that it isn’t home and everything is heavy and hazy and Steve just can’t muster the enthusiasm required for getting out of bed.

He goes back to sleep.

It only helps a little.

He wanders into the studio in his pajamas a couple hours later, inordinately grateful that he can get there without actually leaving his little suite of rooms, and grabs one of the new canvases Tony had stocked it with and one of the new paintbrushes he’d picked out.

He decides on acrylic, and squirts some impulsively chosen colors - purple and teal and a gold that reminds him of wheat fields - onto a palette. 

He stares at them for a little while, then decides they aren’t quite right. Out come the white and the black and the brown, and maybe some green would improve that teal -

All he does that afternoon is mix colors, and that helps a little more.

There’s a knock on the door of the studio - everyone has learned very quickly not to invite themselves in - and Steve says “come in” before he can remember that it’s nearly dinnertime and he’s still wearing pajamas and he hasn’t actually painted anything.

“Whatcha doin?” says Natasha, padding up behind him to look over his shoulder. He has a palette of about nine hundred different shades of purple and teal; some bluer, some greener, some redder. He mostly left the gold alone.

Steve just shrugs.

“Are you gonna paint something, or are you just mixing the colors?”

Steve shrugs again. “I dunno,” he says finally. “I want to paint something with these colors, but I haven’t decided what yet.”

Natasha shrugs too. “I like the combination,” is her only comment. “Purple and teal, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

Natasha eyes him for a moment, then adds, “You should come out to the common room. I’m pretty sure Sam’s making those tacos of his that are really good, and I know you don’t want to miss that. They’ll be done in maybe twenty minutes or so.”

Steve knows that’s his hint that he should take those twenty minutes to get dressed and maybe shower (definitely shower), so he stands and stretches, then covers his colors carefully.

“Sure,” he says. “Wouldn’t miss it.”  
The next day, his paints are mostly dry, because they’re acrylics. Of course. Steve fights back his disappointment, resists the urge to tell Tony (because he knows Tony would disappear off to his lab and reappear five hours later with some kind of vacuum-sealed paint storage contraption, and that’s exactly what he doesn’t need), and walks out of the room.

He sits around the living room and sketches for a little while. A doodle of Natasha - her face is hard for him to capture, and if he gets the likeness right, the portrait is stilted and undynamic. Bucky’s face is easier, more familiar, so he sketches that a few times, then tries Sam. Then Tony, Clint, Bruce, Thor. Next he knows, it’s mid afternoon and he has a page full of his friends’ faces.

Well. That’s not so bad, he thinks, and it might not be a painting, but it’s something, and it just goes to show that he _does_ have something to draw in here the future.

 _Take that,_ he thinks in the general direction of the vague, unsettling sense of not belonging here.

 

After dinner, he goes back to the studio and mixes his paints again.

 

“You should try designing tattoos,” suggests Sam, when he comes to find him in the studio hours later. “Just an idea. It might be a little different than anything you’ve tried before.”

Steve considers it, thinking of all the things that he might find important enough to tattoo on his body.

“Okay,” he says, already envisioning the Brooklyn skyline circling his upper arm.

 

The next page of his sketchbook is dedicated to tattoo designs, and unlike the sketches of his friends, he shows them to Sam. There’s the Brooklyn skyline like he first thought of, a few constellations, carefully mapped out on the page to be as accurate as possible, and a couple floral designs that remind Steve of the rooftop garden he’s never gotten around to planting. It’s not much, he thinks, but Sam is impressed.

“Are those constellations?” he asks, pointing. “I recognize the Big Dipper, but not the other ones.”

“Orion,” says Steve, pointing. “And Lyra, and Cassiopeia. Just a couple that I remember. Learned them in Europe.” He remembers how Gabe Jones knew all of them, or at least as many as he could see as far south as Georgia, and used to point them out on the long winter nights when none of them could sleep properly.

“Where would you put them? Or are they not for you?” Sam asks, and Steve shrugs.

“Not sure yet,” he answers, “But I was thinking they’d be nice on somebody with freckles. You know, like drawing out the constellations in their freckles. Might look cool.”

“That’s a great idea, Steve,” Sam agrees.

 

Steve goes back to mixing his paints. He hasn’t gotten the shade of purple quite right; he’s not sure what it’s for, but he does know that the color isn’t right and that just won’t do.

The next person to interrupt him in the solitude of his studio is Bucky.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says, leaning against the doorway.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve answers, carefully setting his brush down and turning to face him, head tilted to the side inquisitively. “What’s up?”

Bucky shrugs. “Just wondering what you’re doing in here, I guess. You’ve been cooped up in here for hours.”

Steve grins at him wryly. “Just boring artist stuff,” he says.

“Nuh-uh,” says Bucky, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I wanna see. If that’s okay,” he adds hastily.

Steve shrugs. “I’m just mixing colors,” he beckons for Bucky to come over. “At least, that’s all I’ve done so far.”

“That’s a beautiful teal,” says Bucky, and somehow it makes sense to Steve that Bucky would like the teal. “What are you going to paint with it?”

“I don’t know yet,” admits Steve. “I just really like the colors, you know?”

“For good reason,” agrees Bucky. “But for now, I made this really good frozen strawberry yogurt, and I want you to try it.”

“Frozen strawberry yogurt?”

Bucky shrugs. “Sam’s favorite place downtown closed this week,” he says. “Thought I’d see if I could come up with something better.”

Steve feels a pang of disappointment. Not in Bucky, though - in himself. He hadn’t heard anything about it, and he’s pretty sure that has something to do with how much time he’s been spending alone in the studio. Tony’s probably regretting setting it up for him.

“Sure,” he says, dropping his brush into the cup of water and wiping his hands off before following Bucky out of the room.

 

He knocks on Sam’s door later that night. (The strawberry yogurt had been an excellent success, but Steve couldn’t stop feeling guilty about it. Frozen yogurt was such a stupid thing to be guilty about.)

“Hey, Sam,” he says, when Sam opens the door. It’s late enough that Bucky and Natasha have retreated to their own rooms for the evening, and Steve wouldn’t have bothered him, except the light under his door was still on.

“Hey,” Sam answers. “What’s up?”

“I just.” Steve shuffles his feet. “Wanted to say sorry, I guess. I haven’t been…present, lately, is probably the right way to put it.”

Sam crosses his arms. “What prompted this?” he asks. “I mean, you’re not wrong, but - I’m a little confused.”

Steve hangs his head sheepishly. “Honestly, it was the frozen yogurt thing,” he admits. “Bucky heard your favorite place closed and came up with a homemade recipe. I didn’t even know about it until he asked me to try it.”

Sam smiles warmly at him. “You know,” he says, “it’s not fair to compare yourself to anyone else. You’ve spent a lot of time lately dealing with everyone’s problems but your own, and it’s okay to not be okay for a while.” He pauses. “But for reference, my second favorite flavor is peach. And, also for reference, my door is always open. Metaphorically.”  
“Peach,” Steve echoes. “Got it.”

 

The next day, he doesn’t get out of bed. It’s too hard. Everything is too much to bear, his bed included, but at least it’s warm and he doesn’t have to expend any effort to stay there.

Natasha comes in and sits next to him for a while and plays with his hair like she knows he likes. She talks to him, too. When he catches bits of it, it sounds like she’s reading poetry. Mostly, he doesn’t listen.

 

The next day is easier. It usually is, after a day like that. 

Bucky comes to find him in the studio again. This time he looks uncomfortable, maybe even nervous. Steve has impulsively added a gray to his mix of colors. It seems only fitting, in a palette that’s otherwise so vivid.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, the fingers on his metal arm fidgeting and making a whirring noise that’s almost annoying.

“Yeah?” Steve looks up, but doesn’t set aside his paints. He doesn’t really feel like he quite has the energy to talk today, but it’s Bucky, so he’ll try.

“You okay?”

Steve shrugs. “Sure.”

Bucky looks pained, and fidgets even more obviously as he struggles for words. “Look, I just,” he starts, then shakes his head. “You’re not depressed…because of me, or,” he gestures vaguely “all the other...stuff, that happened, are you?”

Depressed. That’s the first time anyone has used that word to describe it. Steve shrugs. He’s doing a piss poor job of explaining himself, but he’s pretty sure Bucky is referring to what he and Sam more or less refer to as the “DC Debacle.”

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve always…kind of been this way, I guess. It’s just gotten worse. Which,” he adds hastily, “is not your fault.”

“Nothing ever is,” mutters Bucky. “Um. Well, I mean, if there’s anything I can do?”

“I’ll let you know,” agrees Steve, already turning back to his paints.

But Bucky comes to stand right next to him, a hand hovering nervously over his shoulder.

“Can I hug you?” he asks, surprising Steve. His voice is wobbly.

Steve carefully sets aside his palette and his brush and stands up and lets Bucky wrap him in his arms.

“It’s cheesy as fuck,” he murmurs, “but ‘till the end of the line, right? Don’t forget it.”

 

Steve is in the communal kitchen at four in the morning, staring at a mug of cold cocoa. He’d only come up here because he was out of cocoa in his own kitchen and he hasn’t bothered to go to the store lately, and the minute he sees a light flick on down the hall, he regrets his choice.

It’s Sam. He looks surprised to see Steve, but only momentarily. Without saying anything, he goes straight for the cocoa that Steve had left out on the counter and begins making himself a cup.

“You out of cocoa too?” Steve asks roughly.

“Mm, and Natasha always buys the best cocoa, anyways,” says Sam, popping his mug in the microwave.

They sit in a more or less companionable silence for a few minutes. Sam sits next to Steve and takes a cautious sip of his cocoa, only to grimace when it burns his tongue. He sets it on the counter and looks at it wistfully in the meantime.

“So,” says Steve, trying to fill the silence. “What brings you here at four am?”

Sam shrugs. “Nightmare,” he admits easily. “You?”

“Same,” says Steve. “Didn’t know you had nightmares.”

Sam gives him a look. “Everyone does sometimes,” he says. “I don’t, very often anyways.” He shrugs again. “Got a few good recurring ones, though.”

“Mm.” Steve sips his own cocoa. “Wanna talk about it?”

Sam shoots him a lopsided smile. “Not really,” he says. “Not a whole lot to talk about, anymore. But thanks for asking.” He pauses. “You wanna talk about yours?”

“Nah,” says Steve, tipping his mug up to get the last of his cocoa. “But thanks.”

He drops his mug in the sink, figuring he can wash it in the morning, then remembers that there is a dishwasher and it would behoove him as a good roommate to at least put the mug in there. Especially since it isn’t his kitchen.

“Good night,” he waves lazily at Sam as he tiptoes down the hall to the elevator and his own rooms, where he sits and watches the sun rise before laying down for a few hours in a fruitless attempt to get at least a little sleep.

 

The next day - well, that morning, really, he’s tired, because he didn’t sleep at all the night before. But it feels like a good day, nonetheless; maybe even because of it. He’s always liked watching the sunrise; there’s something peaceful about it.

Today’s the day, he thinks. Teal and purple and gold and gray; he doesn’t know what, but he’s gonna make something out of those colors.

He heads to the studio and carefully selects a canvas from the stash it’s stocked with; his choice is eventually a skinny rectangular one, and he decides he wants it to hang vertically.

When he’s all set up to start painting, he stands there and stares at it for a good long moment. He’s got the canvas set carefully on an easel, right by his favorite window so he’ll have a nice view, and with the table right next to it with his palettes and brushes and water. It’s pristine like this, he thinks. A big part of him doesn’t want to paint anything; it will ruin the scene. Nothing he paints will quite measure up, so maybe it would be better not to paint anything at all.

The rest of him picks up a brush.

The first few strokes of brush on canvas are awkward. Uncomfortable, even. The shapes aren’t quite right - they aren’t even shapes, really, just impressions, curves across the canvas that don’t really mean anything. Steve thinks that’s okay.

It’s too soft. He adds some spikes, then looks at it critically and adds a few more. Some purple here, some teal there. He outlines everything in gold, just because. He’s not sure what exactly it is that he’s painting, but maybe it doesn’t have to be anything.

It’s not for hours that he finally emerges from the art studio; he feels more at peace than he has in a long time, but he’s also hungry. He doesn’t even bother to wash the paint off of his hands before heading to the kitchen.

Natasha is there, wearing sweats and reading the paper and drinking an early afternoon coffee, looking more at home than Steve has ever seen her in the tower. He wants to draw her like this.

She looks up, smiling when she sees the paint on his arms. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey yourself,” he replies, opening the fridge to stare wistfully inside. There is, sadly, nothing he can simply pop into the microwave. He might have to cook. The expression on his face when he realizes that might almost be called a pout.

“You hungry?” Natasha asks. “I haven’t had lunch yet. We could make something.”

“All right,” agrees Steve, partly because he’s curious about what Nat will suggest, and partially because no matter what it is, he definitely doesn’t have any better options. “What’ve you got in mind?”

Nat folds the paper crisply and grins at him. “Have you had my macaroni and cheese yet? It’s the _best_.”

 

She immediately puts Steve on grating cheese.

“I hate grating cheese,” she says. “Hate it. You’re a super soldier, it should take you like, ten seconds to turn that block of cheese into grated cheese. Go.” She waves her hands at him.

“You’re no slouch yourself, you know,” he complains, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s only a few minutes before he has a small mountain of cheese sitting in front of him.

“Told you,” says Nat, scooping up the cutting board with the cheese and putting it next to the stove. “Now, my favorite part. Watching water boil. It’s very thrilling. Right up there with watching paint dry, possibly second only to watching grass grow.”

“Sounds like you do a lot of fun things in your free time,” Steve comments, carefully keeping his face straight. Nat ruins the moment by elbowing him.

“Whatever, Steve,” she says, grinning. “We’ll see who has the last laugh when you try the macaroni. I wasn’t lying when I said it’s the best.”

 

She’s not wrong; it’s gooey and cheesy and _incredible._

“Where did you learn to make this?” asks Steve. “I mean,” he says through another mouthful, which is too hot and burns his tongue, “it’s really good.”

Nat shrugs. “I don’t actually know that much about cooking,” she says. “At least, not the fancy kind. Most of what I know is easy shit to make, you know, when I’m in the field and don’t have a lot to work with.” She shrugs. “Bonus points for tasty, and cheese definitely falls into that category. I keep meaning to raid Bruce’s spice drawer and try some of them out sometime. Seems like it might be fun, you know?”

“Let me guess, you like food so spicy it would make me cry,” says Steve dryly. Nat just grins at him. “I’m telling Bruce to hide the hot sauce,” he adds, making her scowl and stick her tongue out.

“I’m an adult,” she points out. “I could just, you know, go buy more hot sauce.”

Steve gasps. “The Black Widow, doing something as mundane as grocery shopping? Shocking!”

“Shut up, Steve.” Nat can’t keep herself from smiling. “You’re such an asshole. That grocery store won’t know what hit it. I’ll buy every fucking bottle of hot sauce they have.”

“I feel sorry for them in advance,” he tells her solemnly.

 

Sam and Bucky arrive shortly thereafter and discover the mac and cheese sitting on the counter, and it is very shortly a macaroni and cheese party.

“Holy shit, who made this?” asks Sam, shoving an enormous spoonful in his mouth. “It is so good. I want to marry the person who made this. I don’t care which one of you it is.”

“I second that, without the weird proposal,” agrees Bucky, rolling his eyes. “So whose wedding are we attending, then?”

“Weak proposal, Wilson,” says Nat, idly inspecting her nails. “The answer is no.” The tiny smile she’s wearing completely gives her away; she’s positively glowing from the praise to her cooking.

“I helped,” says Steve forlornly.

“You can be the best man,” Sam reassures him.

“Excuse me?” asks Bucky indignantly.

 

Macaroni and cheese party turns into movie night which turns into Clint and Tony and Bruce showing up. After that, it takes about ten seconds for someone to fling a piece of popcorn at Clint, and then it’s on.

They fight over which movie to watch - mostly between Tony and Clint, and Steve tunes the whole discussion out. He’s exhausted.

He sleeps through the movie and only wakes up when the rest of the team is leaving to discover Natasha curled up against his side, blinking like she, too, has just been woken up.

Steve’s disappointed; he hasn’t seen much of the rest of the team lately, he realizes guiltily.

“We should do this again sometime,” he suggests, even though it feels like a weak effort. “You know, I might stay awake next time.”

“Absolutely,” Tony assures him, and Bruce is nodding, and Clint is shrugging and saying “I have no plans on Thursdays ever, Cap, I’m all yours,” and then they’re waving and filing out the door.

Sam and Bucky head to their own rooms after saying good night, leaving Steve and Natasha on the couch. Steve’s not feeling very ready to move yet, but Nat slips off the couch and stretches.

“Come on, Steve,” she says, offering him a hand. He lets her pull him off the couch. She surprises him by immediately wrapping him into a hug, her arms a warm and comforting weight around his middle. He can rest his chin on her head, he realizes, so he does.

“You’re very huggable, you know,” she tells his chest.

“You are, too,” he says, squeezing her tightly.

 

The suggestion, surprisingly - or maybe not - comes from Tony. He tracks Steve down in his art studio on a Saturday afternoon and leans up against the door frame, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, clearing his throat conspicuously until Steve notices him.

“Hey. Hey, Cap,” he says. “I got an idea.”

This is not surprising; Tony has lots of ideas, and as he says, only twelve percent of them are any good. Steve raises his eyebrows expectantly and waits for Tony to go on.

Tony sighs. “You’re no fun, you know that? Okay, here’s my idea. A little birdie - no, I’m not telling you which one - may have mentioned to me that you’re a little blue. A lot blue. And you maybe don’t really know what to do with yourself when you’re not saving the world. Which is a lot of the time, really, since the world only needs saving like twice a year. Only.”

“Is there a point to this, or,” Steve says dryly. He suspects the bird comment means Sam or Clint, because that _would_ be Tony’s style, but he’s not going to push it to find out.

“Yes, yes, that’s what my idea is about. Okay, so, you have lots of time, and clearly -” he gestures at the room around them - “artistic talent.” Steve opens his mouth to protest and Tony holds up a hand to shush him. “And you also have - well, I have, whatever - lots of money. The point is, lots of money at your disposal.”

“I’m still not seeing the point,” says Steve.

Tony sighs dramatically. “All right, all right. I was thinking that you, as someone with time and money and inclination, should do something, like for charity. And Pepper suggested an art gallery, since obviously art, and she _loves_ art galleries, so she’ll help you with whatever you want, you just gotta ask her, and -”

Tony’s rambling at this point. Steve smiles at him and says, “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Tony. “I know I’ve been busy with work or whatever, but if you need to blow something up in the name of catharsis, you come see me, okay?”

“Got it,” agrees Steve, with a poorly suppressed smile.

 

Steve does think about it; the idea won’t leave him alone. Uncertainty about his own artistic capabilities weighs heavily on him, but even bigger is the realization that he _wants_ to do this. He so rarely truly wants anything anymore - hasn’t in a long time, really - that he decides it’s worth doing something about.

So he calls up Pepper. Tony’d said it was all her idea, and Steve really hopes he wasn’t lying when he said she’d be happy to help him, because he really, _really_ needs the help.

Pepper picks up her cell on the first ring.

“Hello? Oh, Steve!” she says. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Pepper,” he replies. “How are you?”

“Great,” she responds crisply. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Steve swallows hard, then says, “Tony was telling me about the idea you guys had for, uh, an art gallery. And I was thinking I might like to do that.”

Pepper nearly squeals with excitement. “Oh, this is great,” she says. “I’m so thrilled. Are you free today? For a late lunch, maybe? There’s this great art gallery a few blocks over I’d like to take you to. We need to start figuring out some ideas. Oh, I’m so excited. I love art.”

“Tony said as much,” Steve comments, smiling. Pepper’s excitement is contagious. “But yeah, a late lunch would be good.”

“Meet you in the loft in an hour?”

“Meet you in an hour,” Steve agrees.

 

Pepper links her arms with Steve and leads him, as promised, just a few blocks over. Even an hour or so after the usual lunch rush, the streets are crowded enough that no one spares them a second look. It’s refreshing, and, emboldened, Steve finds himself chatting animatedly with Pepper. He doesn’t know anything about modern art - admittedly, catching up on recent art history has been relatively low on his to-do list - and after a few minutes, he winds up mostly listening as she briefs him on the highlights.

“This gallery we’re going to is a local artist, not a big name yet. Her work is great, and I really like the layout of the gallery, so maybe we can get some ideas. There are a few conference rooms on the first floor of the tower that we could probably use for the occasion, permanently, if you want.”

“Okay,” says Steve. “I mean, if that’s okay with you -”

“Steve.” Pepper squeezes his arm gently. “It’s okay. Now, what would you like it to benefit?”

Steve has thought about that a lot, and he still doesn’t have an answer, so he tells her that. There are just too many possibilities; he wants to pick something personally meaningful, but he’s really not sure how to choose between supporting disabled vets or sheltering homeless animals or funding art programs in public schools, or - he knows a successful fundraiser should have one focus, but it just seems impossible.

“Okay,” says Pepper thoughtfully “Well, keep thinking about it, okay? Do you have any other ideas?”

“I don’t want it to be an enormous media circus,” he says immediately. “I mean,” he clarifies. “I don’t want it to be about getting attention for me. Attention for whatever I end up supporting, yes, absolutely. But I think I want to leave the Captain America thing out of it as much as possible, since it’s not… about me.”

“Also,” he adds, “my art is frankly mediocre so I don’t know about trying to sell it either. That’s probably out.”

Pepper laughs. “People would buy it, because you’re Captain America,” she points out, “but since you’re not wanting to capitalize on that, we’ll figure something else out.

“I just want to do something good for someone with my time off,” Steve mutters. “Saving the world is only a twice a year job.”

 

Steve decides that the gallery should feature young local artists (with a few of his own works mixed in - Pepper points out that he could probably qualify as a “young local artist”) and benefit services for returned veterans. He’ll have to talk to Sam about the specifics, but it’s a place to start.

“Is that even conventional?” he asks Pepper over lunch that day. “I mean, is that how art galleries work? Can we just put out a call for submissions like that?”

Pepper shrugs, sipping her wine. “Sure,” she says. “Stark Industries is backing it, and that will draw people - and I can have my PA put together a list of art studios in the city to send a mailer to. It’s a win-win - exposure for young artists to people with money who might buy their work, and all the funds raised from admissions go to a good cause. Might not be conventional, but it seems like a sound idea to me. I wasn’t joking about you putting in a piece or two of your own though, Steve. You should think about it.”

“I’ll think about it,” agrees Steve cautiously. His painting, the only one he’s started, is still going a whole lot of nowhere. The thought of hanging it an art gallery for people to look at is kind of unbearable, but he agrees that he should have something there. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it, he supposes.

 

Bucky finds Steve later that night sitting on the roof, right in the middle of Bruce’s prize tomato plants. He has his sketchbook in hand and is doing some still lifes of plants in the rooftop garden, but what he really wants is some paint. The sun is setting, and he’s never really managed to capture the color gradient of sunset to twilight quite right.

“Hey,” says Bucky, sitting down beside him, legs crossed. He’s wearing a big, loose sweater - one of Nat’s, Steve thinks - against the evening chill, and he’s pulled his hair up in a bun, but there are little wisps of hair falling out of it. He looks more relaxed than Steve would have thought possible a year ago.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

Steve smiles at him. “You look good,” he says truthfully. Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“Well, you aren’t too shabby yourself, you know,” he responds, grinning widely. “But that isn’t really news. I hear you’ve got a project.”

Steve tells him, everything that he and Pepper have talked over, and he listens attentively.

“That sounds…. great,” he says. “It’s a really good idea, Steve.”

“Thanks,” Steve mutters, staring at his hands.

“What are you gonna put in it? You said you were thinking about putting something you did in it,” Bucky clarifies. “What about that painting you’ve been working on?”

 

“Maybe,” says Steve, not committing to anything.

“What is it, if you don’t mind me asking?” asks Bucky. “I mean, I know you don’t usually like people prying about your art. I don’t mean to pry. Just wondering.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s abstract,” he says vaguely.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “But Sam tells me you’ve been designing tattoos, and I do want to see those.” He puts on his stern face. “Maybe I want one.”

Steve looks at him sharply. “You want a tattoo, so you want to look through my sketchbook for ideas? That doesn’t make any sense, Buck.”

Bucky shrugs. “It makes all kinds of sense, Steve,” he says. “If I want to tattoo something permanently into my skin, what makes more sense than something you drew?” 

The mood has turned too heavy for Steve, and he fidgets, without answering Bucky, for a long moment.

“All right, I’ll get it for you,” he mutters finally, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. Bucky rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

 

Bucky spends all of five minutes flipping through Steve’s sketchbook before he settles.

“This one,” he says decisively, pointing at one of the floral designs.

“You sure?” asks Steve, staring at it dubiously. “It’s not -”

“Yes it is,” insists Bucky. “It’s perfect.”

Steve just frowns at him and resists the urge to cross his arms.  
“What?” asks Bucky, grinning and spreading his arms. “You wanna practice?”

“Practice?” Steve asks, bewildered, but Bucky is already digging through the cabinet marked “paint.”

 

It turns out Tony stocked the art studio with washable paints, and Bucky shoves a selection of them into his arms.

“Will these colors work, do you think?” he asks, already rummaging around for brushes. He’s messing up Steve’s carefully organized supply set, but Steve decides not to comment for now. He and Bucky have been too distant, lately; he’s not going to spoil this moment by griping about making a mess.

“Sure,” he replies absently, looking for a clean palette. “Where do you want it?”

“Hmm.” Bucky pauses to consider the design for a moment. “Maybe my shoulderblade? The right one,” he clarifies hastily. Then he shrugs. “If I don’t like it there, I’ll get it somewhere else. No big deal.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees faintly. He sets about filling up a cup with some water to rinse the brushes, and when he turns back around, Bucky is pulling his shirt off, his back turned to Steve. Steve pauses for just a moment to admire the way the muscles in his back move before carefully setting his supplies on the floor.

“Okay, sit,” he says, gesturing to the floor in front of him and settling in the most comfortable position he can find. He ends up with his knees spread and Bucky nestled between them.

“This’ll tickle,” he murmurs as he dips his brush into the paint.

Bucky shivers as he touches the brush to his skin. Steve hadn’t thought to fill the cup with warm water, but it’s too late to turn back now; at first, he paints timidly, stopping every few seconds to check his drawing, doing his best to replicate the sketch.

“Are you trying to tickle me, or paint?” asks Bucky, squirming.

“I didn’t know you were ticklish,” Steve teases, and Bucky cranes his head around to scowl at him. 

“I’m not,” he says, very firmly. Steve just grins at him.

“Sure you’re not,” he agrees, even though they both know Bucky is lying through his teeth.

Steve finishes the tattoo and pauses for a minute. He should wash his brush off, stand up, offer to let Bucky look in the mirror in his bathroom.

Instead, he reaches for the pink and orange and begins to paint in wide, sweeping brush strokes, doing his best to blend the colors. He paints rhythmically, back and forth, and he thinks the repetition has put Bucky to sleep until he murmurs, “so, I’m pretty sure that isn’t part of the original design. What are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” answers Steve distractedly. The blending below Bucky’s metal shoulder blade isn’t quite right. He hesitates, then paints right over top of it, too. The colors aren’t quite the same over top of the metal, but it doesn’t matter.

Steve works his way down Bucky’s back, one careful stroke after another, blending blue into white into yellow into orange, right up to the hem of his pants, as close as he can without getting paint on it.

Bucky chuckles, startling Steve, who had become completely absorbed in his work. “I’m not gonna disown you if you get a little paint on my pants, you know,” he points out.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters, then he laughs. “I’m about done, anyways.”

“Can I see?” asks Bucky, trying to twist around so he can see his own back.

“Stop that,” Steve scolds him, standing up and offering him a hand. “There’s a mirror in the bathroom right here. That’ll be better.”

Bucky lets Steve pull him up and follows him into the bathroom. He still has to crane his head around awkwardly to get a proper look at his back, but he immediately becomes quiet.

“Well?” asks Steve, trying to come across as lighthearted. “What do you think?”

“That’s a sunrise,” says Bucky, frowning a little at the mirror.

“Yeah? Do you like it?”

“Might be a little expensive to ink,” Bucky tries to joke, but the tension in his voice gives him away. He clears his throat roughly. “Why a sunrise?”

Steve shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s pretty?” he tries. He shrugs again. “It just seemed right, I guess.”

Bucky lets out a watery little laugh. “You’re something else, Rogers,” he mutters. He hesitates for a long moment. “Can I kiss you?”

Steve freezes. “Um,” he says. “Yes?”

“I can hear the question mark on the end of that sentence, Steve,” says Bucky. His tone is light hearted, but the hurt in his eyes gives him away.

“Okay, uh, let me clarify,” says Steve. “Yes, definitely, yes, but. If you’re looking for a sexual relationship, this isn’t it. I’m not,” he waves his hands around awkwardly. “I really like you, obviously - maybe not obviously, I don’t know - but I don’t want to have sex with you. Or anyone. Not just you, anyone.”

“Okay,” says Bucky.

“Okay? That’s it?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows. Bucky shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, sex would be welcome on my end but it is definitely not a condition of me liking you, seriously, Steve.”

“Oh,” is all Steve can say.

“Are we on the same page now?” Bucky asks, reaching for Steve’s hand, just a light touch at first, so Steve will easily be able to pull away if he wants. Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and squeezes.

“Yeah, I think so,” he says.

“Great,” says Bucky. “So, can we go back to the kissing part?”

Steve doesn’t bother answering him, just rests his hand on Bucky’s jaw and leans down to kiss him. And then he’s overwhelmed with the urge to hug Bucky, so he does, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist, vaguely mindful of wet paint, and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“So, kissing is a yes,” says Bucky, his voice muffled by Steve’s shoulder. “How do you feel about cuddling?”

“Yes, yes, definitely yes,” agrees Steve. “But first, we should take a picture of your back.”

“Just for the record,” says Bucky, “I volunteer to let you paint on me anytime.”

 

They end up on the couch at Steve’s, crowded together on the couch that was clearly not designed for two people to be laying on it at once. Bucky is draped halfway over Steve, laying on his stomach, which leaves Steve’s hands free to roam up and down his back and sides, tracing patterns aimlessly.

Bucky sighs and closes his eyes, nuzzling into Steve’s shoulder contentedly. “You’re so fucking warm,” he mutters. “You’re like an enormous space heater.”

Steve considers this. “I’m the most attractive space heater you’ve ever seen,” he decides.

“I can’t argue with that,” agrees Bucky. “Although to be fair, I really haven’t seen that many space heaters.”

“You know,” says Steve, trailing his fingers across Bucky’s ribs. “It seems a little silly to be jammed on the couch when there is a perfectly good bed in the next room that was actually made to hold more than one person.”

“Shh,” Bucky shushes him. “You are very comfortable. Shush.”

They end up falling asleep like that, laying in the late afternoon sun with the somewhat-smudged remnants of the sunrise streaked across Bucky’s back.

 

The next day, Steve spends in the art studio. The details for the gallery are starting to come together; he and Pepper have set a date and reserved the appropriate rooms in the tower and arranged for refreshments. They’ve put out calls for submissions and advertised Stark Industries’ sponsorship to Pepper’s contacts, and for now, all Steve has to do is paint.

Pepper is gently insistent that he put a piece of his own into the show. They’ve had submissions from student artists around the city, and Steve is determined to display all of them, but Pepper says the gallery won’t be quite right unless he puts something in, too.

She’s right. He knows she is. And that’s what has him staring at his easel, palette of carefully mixed paints in one hand, brush in the other. This painting has been going absolutely nowhere for weeks, and he’s still not sure where he’s going with it, just that it’s time to get moving. If he waits until he knows, he won’t get anywhere.

Gray first, he decides, painting over what he had before. He paints the whole canvas gray, mixing in some black occasionally for a streaky effect. It’s a good place to start, he decides. He can build all sorts of vibrant colors on top of a gray background.

He starts adding teal, punctuating the somber gray with bursts of color, and from there it flows organically, with purple and teal spattered across the canvas, running through the gray like colorful veins. He isn’t sure how long he works, and he finds that he doesn’t really mind, much; he’s not thinking about much of anything other than where he’s going to put his brush next, and he feels calmer than he has in months.

Eventually his stomach lures him out of the studio in search of food, and he finds Sam in the kitchen. Steve ambles up to the fridge and opens it, digging out the leftovers from the night before, and starts scooping them onto a plate, which he pops in the microwave. Sam is reading a cookbook at the table. When Steve sits down opposite him with his plate of food, he looks up.

“Hey,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” says Steve between bites. “Just working on my painting.” He realizes belatedly that he didn’t bother to wash his hands, which are covered in dried paint, so the fact that he’d been painting was probably fairly obvious. “How about you?”

“Great,” Sam says. “I’ve been upstairs with Tony this morning working on upgrades to my wings. You should see the blueprints he’s got, they’re _unbelievable_.”

“I’ve seen his blueprints,” says Steve. “They are incredible. Except the time he decided he wanted to design me a new uniform. The armor upgrades were great - the fashion sense, not so much.”

Sam laughs. “I’m not surprised - I mean, I have seen the Iron Man suits.” He shakes his head. “I just can’t wait to take them out.”

“How long till you can?” Steve asks. Sam shrugs.

“Probably a month or two,” he says. “Stark’s good, but building delicate shit like that takes time.”

“True,” says Steve. He continues eating in silence for a few minutes.

“So how’s the painting coming?” Sam asks. “Gallery opens day after tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “I’m not done.”

Sam laughs again. “No way. You’ve been at it for hours. I guess I better let you get back to work, since you’re on a deadline and all.”

Steve makes a show of groaning and rolling his eyes, but really, Sam is right and they both know it. Steve puts his dishes in the dishwasher and heads back to the studio.

 

The next day Steve spends more or less feverishly locked in the studio. Somebody comes by to bring him food every once in a while, and Pepper stops in to give him a stern look on her way in from work.

He’s not even sure what this painting is, honestly - it’s an amalgamation of colors, and Pepper says it’s abstract, but to Steve, it’s just a feeling. He’s just putting stuff that seems right together in a way that looks right. But it’s important to him to get the details right, if they could be called details; he’s outlining his teal streaks in gold and putting dots in just the right place, and somehow it matters very much exactly how thick that line is and how many dots there are clustered together.

He’s been listening to soothing music all day in an attempt to stave off the deadline pressure, but as it approaches midnight, he finds that he isn’t worried about it anymore. He’d almost describe the feeling as serene; he’ll stay up all night finishing this painting if he has to, but it will be displayed tomorrow, and he’s sure on an indisputable level that it’s true.

He finishes the painting at about two in the morning, long after the rest of the tower has gone to bed. His studio is quiet and dark, except the light he has illuminating his work, and his worktable is a mess; cups full of water, and cups that were supposed to be drinking water that ended up with brushes in them, and palettes and tubes of paint everywhere. He should clean it up, but it’ll still be there tomorrow; instead, he takes a moment to admire his work. It’s not finished - nothing ever is, not really - but he’s at peace with it, and that’s all he can ask for. Steve’s exhausted and covered in paint and he has not, in nearly any recent memory, felt so content.

Maybe the other day, when he was laying with Bucky. That’s close. But this comes with a sense of accomplishment.

Steve leaves his studio an absolute mess and goes to bed without even getting undressed, leaving flecks of paint all over his pillow.

 

The next day is a blur of getting ready. His painting has to be hung, and all of the rest checked and re-checked. Are they labelled correctly and in the proper section? Is the refreshment table set up, and have the refreshments themselves arrived on site? Many of those details are things that Pepper has been helping him handle, but it’s all hands on deck for the last minute set-up. They need chairs in Room A, and to make sure the programs are by the door, and proper signage between the rooms, and - 

The day mostly passes in a haze of activity. Steve is exhausted, naturally, because he’d been up so late, and by the time it’s time for him to go put on something other than work clothes, he feels more ready to take a nap than to coordinate the opening of an art gallery.

“Steve, go,” says Pepper, gently pushing him in the direction of the elevator. “Take a shower, put on something nice, drink some coffee. This is gonna be great.”

“Coffee doesn’t do anything for me,” Steve complains, but he’s already shuffling in the direction of the elevator.

Steve spends - wastes, more like - fully five minutes just staring at his closet. He has a number of suits from the various charity events that Pepper has insisted the Avengers attend, but they all look more or less the same to him; he finally ends up grabbing one just because it’s charcoal gray, because that gives him an excuse to wear a blue tie (he’s always liked blue with gray; it reminds him of the sea), and Nat always tells him that she likes him in blue because it brings out his eyes, so that’s a reasonably good, safe choice. He’s never felt quite comfortable in a suit, but it’s just one more thing on the list of things he’s not quite comfortable with.

Half an hour later he steps back out into the lobby of Stark Tower, freshly showered and dressed. He’s even wearing the cologne that someone (he suspects Natasha) left sitting on his bathroom counter. It smells of pine; he likes it.

The lobby is a different place than it was an hour ago; there are people milling around, and Steve’s anxiety levels spike, looking at all of them, because he’s Captain America, and they’ll expect him to be charming and friendly, and -

Natasha materializes at his elbow, linking her arm through his. She looks absolutely  
radiant in her slinky emerald green gown and her hair done up in curls; he tells her so.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling sincerely at him. “It’s one of my favorite dresses, and I appreciate the excuse to wear it. Last time, I was undercover in Paris, and the whole op went down the drain…about the only thing that came out unscathed was the dress.” She winks at him.

“I’m glad to provide an excuse to dress up,” he says, amused.

“I want to see your painting,” she says, starting to move and tugging him along gently. “Also, opening is in five minutes and I think your date is waiting for you.”

“My date?” Steve asks, and Nat just rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, towing him through the gallery.

His painting is tucked away in an unassuming little nook. His name isn’t listed with it; no one will know it’s his.

When he and Nat get there, they find Sam and Bucky already standing by it, both looking sharp in suits of their own, Bucky’s wearing a blue tie too, but with a black suit; Sam had opted for a fashion forward aubergine suit. Nat goes to stand next to him, and they make quite the striking pair.

“Hey,” Steve says to the both of them, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

Bucky immediately reaches for his hand and holds it, which Steve finds immensely reassuring. He squeezes back. 

“Like the painting,” Sam says, gesturing at it. “Those are some interesting color choices.”

Steve shrugs. “I just liked it, I guess,” he says. “Grey is always good with vibrant colors, and nobody ever puts it with gold…” he trails off, shrugging.

“I’m glad you decided to display it,” Sam says. “It’s really...striking, I guess is the right word. It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, which feels woefully inadequate. He ducks his head and he can tell that he’s blushing, which only makes it worse. Sam chuckles and claps him on the shoulder.

“Don’t sweat it, Steve,” he says. “I’ll see you at the refreshment table.”

“Don’t eat all the cookies before I get there,” warns Nat. “I’ve gotta go check with Pepper.”

They both wander off, leaving Steve and Bucky standing there, looking at the painting.

“Well, you finished it,” says Bucky. “Told you you would.”’

“Yeah.”

They just stand together in silence for a moment, Steve tapping his fingers against Bucky’s hand nervously.

Then Pepper’s voice comes over the microphone, making them both jump.

“Welcome to the first annual New York City Artist Exposition,” she announces crisply. “Your admission tonight will benefit community clinics managed by the Department of Veteran Affairs throughout New York City, and the art you see featured tonight are all by local up and coming artists. We hope you will consider purchasing their work. Thank you for attending.”

Pepper never asked him to make a speech, for which Steve is immensely grateful.

“Well,” says Bucky, squeezing Steve’s hand. “It’s starting. Let’s go mingle. And get some of those cookies before Sam and Natasha eat them all.”

The evening passes in a blur of small talk, mostly with the attending big shots. Steve takes every chance he can get to talk to the artists whose work is on display, most of whom are in attendance. There is dancing in the social lounge, at Nat’s insistence, and more than a little champagne, and by the end of it all, he’s so tired he can hardly see straight.

Once the gallery has cleared out and all that’s left to do is clean up, Pepper approaches him where he’s leaning comically on Bucky, with a sheaf of papers in hand and wearing an enormous smile.

“Steve,” she says. “I’ve got good news. The preliminary estimate on funds raised, between donates and admissions, is about five hundred thousand dollars and still counting.”

Steve raises his eyebrows at her incredulously. “That’s...a lot of money,” he manages finally, exchanging a glance with Bucky, whose mouth is hanging open.

“It is,” she agrees, beaming. “So I’d have to call this a rousing success. Nicely done,” she says, even though frankly, Steve thinks she did most of the heavy lifting. Pepper is terrifyingly competent.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and she kisses his cheek before striding off purposefully.

“Wow,” says Bucky faintly. “Wow. So.”

“This is so surreal,” mutters Steve, dragging a hand across his face. “I mean, I just wanted to do something productive that would benefit somebody in my spare time. I guess I should have known that with Stark Industries backing it, it would do well, but….” he shrugs. “It’s overwhelming.”

Bucky pats him on the back. “You know,” he says, “I think there are a lot of ways to do good. Small-scale is just as important as large-scale, you know? You went big this time, but I think you do more good than you realize, Steve.”

Steve looks at him for a long moment, then sighs. Bucky reaches around him and wraps an arm around his waist.

“So, how does it feel?”

Steve smiles at him.

“It feels good,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm on Tumblr at [margaretrogers](www.margaretrogers.tumblr.com).


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